


Permission

by sneaqui



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Barebacking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Parent Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 20:27:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneaqui/pseuds/sneaqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/17669.html?thread=36736517#t36736517">this prompt</a> on inception_kink: <i>Eames begins to cry during sex. Maybe it's goodbye!sex, or maybe it's something completely different. I just want to see Eames start crying DURING sex. Maybe Arthur doesn't notice, or maybe he does and it becomes some serious h/c, but I don't want them to stop.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Permission

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Inceptiversary's [A/E Mini Match](http://inceptiversary.livejournal.com/16308.html)! TEAM ANGST 5EVA.
> 
> Beta-ed by [ladderax](http://archiveofourown.org/users/allnuthatchforest/pseuds/ladderax). My boo. <3 <3 <3

Arthur can hardly stand it when Eames touches him like this while they’re fucking. When Eames runs his hands carefully and deliberately over Arthur’s body it makes him feel fragile, as if his skin might split open under Eames’ fingertips. The muscles in Arthur’s stomach and throat tighten as he tries to keep himself together. He doesn’t want to kill the mood and wilt both their dicks by getting emotional. God knows what sort of adoration would come spilling out of his mouth were he to let it run every time Eames is inside of him.

Arthur clenches his thighs tighter around Eames’ hip bones and grabs the headboard. It creaks when he engages every muscle in his arms and begins bouncing up and down on Eames’ cock. Eames whimpers and bucks before stilling himself. Arthur’s eyes are shut tight but he feels the effort it takes Eames to do so. He hears Eames blow out an unsteady breath, feels Eames’ abdominal muscles flutter against the underside of his cock.

Eames spreads his thighs open as far as they’ll go, causing Arthur’s ass to roll back into the space between them and Eames’ cock to slide in deeper. “Oh, fuck. _Eames_.” Arthur grabs one of Eames’ hands where it’s wrapped around his hip and interlocks their fingers, hoping that Eames will take it as permission to start thrusting up.

Instead, the touching resumes. Every muscle in Eames’ body is taut and trembling beneath him, shaking with the desire for release. But Eames is intent on exploration, as if he’s trying to find or remind himself of something. He moves his hands down over Arthur’s ass, squeezes and parts his cheeks. Arthur bites his lips and prays for Eames to slide a finger between them, to rub Arthur’s hole where it’s clinging to Eames’ cock. Instead Eames slides his palms up and over Arthur’s hips, his ribs, across his pecs. He leans up and pulls one of Arthur’s nipples into his mouth, curling his tongue around the hard nub before pinching it between his teeth and lips.

Arthur clamps his mouth shut; it wouldn’t do to scream when the house is dead quiet and Eames’ brother and sister-in-law are asleep in the next room. Instead Arthur lets his head drop down between his shoulders so that his mouth is mere inches from Eames’ when he moans, “Eames.” He wants to say what he usually says, some sort of sufficient and non-committal praise. But Eames’ touch is borderline worshipful. And Arthur finds himself saying, “Eames. Fuck, what are you-” Arthur opens his eyes on the ‘you’, and the rest of his words fall back down into his throat.

Eames isn’t crying. His look is one of concentration rather than helpless grief. His eyebrows are pushed together and his lips are pulled back to reveal his teeth, breath heaving out between them. But there are tears in his eyes, and Arthur watches as they well at the corners and spill out, rivulets running down into and wetting the hair at Eames’ temples.

“Babe,” Arthur murmurs. He stills and reaches down to swipe his thumb beneath Eames’ eye.

This was a stupid idea, trying to distract Eames with sex. Eames’ dad died less than forty-eight hours ago. His memorial service is in less than ten hours. And they’re fucking in Eames’ childhood bed. Jesus. Arthur is terrible at this.

He’s about to apologize when Eames surges up, wraps an arm around Arthur’s waist and pulls Arthur back down onto his cock. “Please,” Eames hisses, nothing more than the l and the s audible. “Don’t stop, love. Please.” Eames tilts his head down so that he can look into Arthur’s eyes and rolls his hips. Eames knows how much Arthur loves getting fucked in this position, the two of them chest to chest, Eames’ belly slick with sweat and rubbing Arthur’s cock.

Arthur takes his hands off the headboard and buries them in Eames’ hair, digs his elbows into Eames’ shoulders and leans their foreheads together. He keeps his eyes locked on Eames’ as he fucks himself back onto his cock. And Eames looks right back, unashamed of the fact that he’s unraveling a bit. His breath is coming out in audible heaves and the skin around his eyes is beginning to redden and swell. The least Arthur can do for Eames right now is bring him off and perhaps into a calmer state of mind. He rolls his hips faster and kisses Eames’ chin, his lips, the corners of his eyes. He murmurs, “Want you to come first. Please, Eames.”

Eames is too wrapped up in whatever is going through his head to respond verbally, though it looks like he tries to. He stares into Arthur’s eyes and opens his mouth. And then his entire body seizes up and he cries out, “Fuck,” as he comes, pressing his face into Arthur’s sternum.

Arthur groans when Eames’ cock swells and pulses inside of him, filling him with come. He presses his lips to the top of Eames’ head and takes himself in hand, gasping and spilling over his own fist with just a few strokes.

Eames groans and squeezes Arthur tighter with the one arm he’s not using to hold himself up. As soon as his cock has softened enough to slip out, he lowers them both gently to the mattress. Arthur slides to Eames’ side but doesn’t go far, and he doesn’t attempt to clean them both up. It can wait. He lays a hand across Eames’ belly and gently scratches the coarse blonde hair below his navel.

Eames stares up at the ceiling for a moment, and then he takes in a deep breath and lets it out as a weak and insincere laugh. “Well,” he says, shaking his head at himself and wiping the heel of his hand across his eyes. “That was unexpected.”

“What’s up?” Arthur asks. He doesn’t want to press Eames for any details that he’s not ready to give. Eames tends to be more vocal when he’s given a wide berth and a choice of whether or not he wants to talk at all.

Eames opens his mouth as if to speak, but he’s interrupted by a loud thump. And then another. And then Eames’ brother shouts from the other side of the wall, “Oi! Keep it down!”

Arthur pounds his fist into the plaster in retaliation and yells, “Piss off.” It’s one of the more useful phrases he’s picked up from Eames.

Eames’ chest shakes where it’s pressed against Arthur’s, and Arthur looks down to see Eames chuckling. His eyes are shining with mirth now as well as tears, and he says, “You make me very happy, you know.”

Arthur smiles and leans down to run his fingers through Eames’ hair. “You make me happy too, Eames.”

Eames regards him for a moment, considering. And then he takes a deep breath and says, “I never thought I’d have this with another man.”

Something in Arthur’s chest clenches at Eames’ admission, but he manages to school his expression into one of curiosity instead of anger or dread.

After a small stretch of silence, Eames continues, “I thought it would be all backrooms and handjobs. Picking up married blokes. Weekends full of self-loathing.”

Arthur moves his hand away from Eames’ scalp so that he doesn’t pull at Eames’ hair when his hand closes into a fist. “Who made you think like that?” Arthur’s voice is a deep rumble in the back of his throat.

Eames smiles up at him, obviously touched and completely unafraid of Arthur’s wrath. He ignores Arthur’s question in favor of teasing him. “My Arthur. My protector,” he says.

Arthur smirks down at Eames’ chest and shrugs. “Somebody’s gotta do it.”

Eames sighs. “Well, you needn’t trouble yourself. The man who played the largest part in contributing to that belief is now dead.”

Arthur pushes as much anger as he possibly can out of his body with a deep breath. And then he lets his head fall to Eames’ chest and grabs Eames’ hand, runs a thumb over his knuckles.

Eames’ voice is a wonderful vibration beneath his ear when he says, “Go ahead. Say what’s on your mind.”

They know each other well enough after four years together that Eames surely knows the gist of what Arthur would like to say. Arthur lifts his head up and looks into Eames’ eyes for any indication that he should just keep his mouth shut. Instead he finds a levity and curiosity in Eames’ expression that suggests hope.

Arthur grips Eames’ hand tighter and says, “With all due respect to him for having a hand in creating you, fuck your dad.”

Eames seems to hold himself back for a moment before he allows himself to grin, his crooked teeth peeking out from between his lips and his eyes crinkling with delight. He brings Arthur’s hand to his mouth, kisses his knuckles and says, “Thank you, love.”


End file.
